


Cracked angel

by notveryhandy



Series: Welcome to the Deathverse [2]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark!Romana, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:34:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24144445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notveryhandy/pseuds/notveryhandy
Summary: Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Somebody broke the President.
Series: Welcome to the Deathverse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1802461
Kudos: 3





	Cracked angel

**Author's Note:**

> Dark!Romana AU expanding on Cutthroat Kindness.

Oh dear, somebody broke the President. The planets are burning and monsters are forming and the stars are going out, and-

Somebody broke the President. She’s at the end of her life, now. This isn’t going to last long.

Oh dear. The President is crying. Now why would anyone do that? Hurt her? Isn’t that _wrong?_

Oh dear. She’s standing over bodies and there’s not much left of anyone, not now. Don’t touch broken glass. It’ll cut you.

Don’t touch the President. She’ll burn you.

* * *

Oh dear, the President is _angry._ And dying. Blood streaking her face as much as dirt does. (Did she get _hurt?_ Well, there’s a shocker.)

She’s kneeling. She’s crying, and maybe she’ll snap. Or maybe she’ll sit down and die.

Fair enough.

But no, no. She’s cradling one of the dead in her arms, although it’s impossible to make out the face. About to regenerate. (They aren’t. They’re gone for good.)

Glowing gold. It stands out amongst the grey of the ashes.

The President is burning up, and, well, that’s life.

New face.

New rules.

* * *

Darker, although perhaps that’s just the atmosphere. It’s hard to tell. She’s smiling, though, and that’s... Good? Bad? It depends.

She’s smiling and she’s holding an oh-so-familiar knife. A gift. A present. From somebody who’s lost or gone or-

Well. Anything can happen. That doesn’t mean you _want_ it, though. There’s the crunch of rocks and dirt and glass under heels, until the heels slip off. Bare feet on broken windows.

That’s got to be sore. And indeed: by the time she has reached her Tardis, there’s fresh blood on her newly-regenerated body. She winces. Yanks the door open, and the hinges squeal.

That’s not rust. It’s pain. Tardises can feel, despite what the Time Lords say.

It’s odd for the President to mistreat a Tardis.

It’s not odd for a criminal to, though.

* * *

Everyone has their demons, but some people are angels. Darkness illuminates light and so light accentuates darkness. The friend inside the enemy-

The enemy inside the friend. And so there is good and bad in everyone, but which shows through is a question of the strength of the light of the darkness.

She’s smiling, head tilted slightly, standing in the console room like a statue of a goddess. Poised. Regal. Frozen and yet almost about to move.

There’s crimson dripping off her hands. The President is waiting. For what is hard to say. Nothing is really happening, not now.

Some people are angels, but this one’s broken.

* * *

There is nobody left to know her. She does not want nor need to be known. There are people who will proclaim their identities far and wide, like their own messenger, and then there is this. The crime of being known is one easily committed, and by far the worst she can think of.

When she finds a planet to visit it is shady, seedy, downtrodden and almost forgotten. In other words -

Perfect. And she has memories of the past who would forbid this kind of anonymity, condemn concealing herself and name it cowardly. That is the past.

When the bartender asks for her name, she finds she has no answer.

* * *

“Hello,” they say, “what’s a girl like you doing here?”

She scowls. Is not a _girl._ But isn’t prepared to raise chaos over an off-handed comment that likely doesn’t translate the same way in the language of this area. “Nothing much. May I have a drink?”

“What d’you want?”

Now there’s a tricky question. “The strongest.”

“Tryin’ to be impressive?”

No. She sighs deeply, an act she recalls doing before. A lot. Ah, isn’t muscle memory wonderful. “Just do it, before I feel the urge to dispose of you.”

She had plenty of aces up her sleeve, but that doesn’t mean she wants to play them. Not unless it’s absolutely necessary.

The bartender squeaks and passes her a glass of hypervodka. “That’ll be, uh, twenty credits?”

She arches an eyebrow. “You don’t sound so sure about that.” She hands the money over anyway. No need to raise a fuss.

No need to be paid attention, no need to be cared for. She’s past that now.

* * *

There is a name on her lips, one she cannot quite remember. It is hers, she thinks, or perhaps it is nothing. Perhaps, she thinks, she doesn’t need to know. (She is happy simply being, does not need the complications of her history to blind her.)

When she closes her eyes there are nightmares and when she looks in the mirror they come to life. They breathe like anything does, except their chests rise not with air but with bubbling glee at horrifying her.

This is her nightmare. If she must see them, then so must others. _Nobody else should ever have to feel my pain,_ somebody once told her. (Once, she believed them.)

The name is familiar.

_Romana._

She doesn’t like it. It becomes the stuff of nightmares.

* * *

The stars are beautiful. Beautiful, except-

There is a robot, a dog in the Tardis. It is distracting her form these flashing supernovas.

It beeps. She looks down, and kicks it carelessly. It’s K-9, wheezing slightly.

“I have a message, Mistress?”

She sighs. “Oh, go on, just this once.”

“Affirmative, Mistress. Message from unknown members of Gallifrey. Beginning audio: _We don’t know where you are, Romana, but we promise we’ll find you. We’ll miss you-_ ”

“K-9, stop.” She’s tired, so goddamn tired. She’s not Romana, either. Not anymore.

* * *

She swallows back the urge to vomit, and stands up. K-9 looks on at her.

“Mistress, continue recording?”

 _No._ “No.” The guilt is drowning her already, and she knows if she stays to listen she will break and turn back and everything will be worse.

There are tears dripping down her cheeks, and she wishes-

Wishes-

Just this once, to be free of emotions.

* * *

Had she been in a better state of mind, there might have been a way out. But the darkness around her eyes only intensifies, extinguishing what little light had been shining into the world.

She blinks, light-headed. Tilts her head, shakes it as though it’s waterlogged and she’s trying to clear it out. The dizziness coalesces into nauseating, lurching breaths, until she’s doubled over on the floor, almost unconscious.

 _Hey,_ somebody less mature might have said, _who turned out the lights?_

* * *

There are travellers who are brave and there are those who are not so kind. There are people who run so they can escape their pain. (Some of those people end up running for the rest of their lives because the pain only builds up.)

There are people who have seen civilisations burn. Some were (as they really ought to be) horrified, some were indifferent. Some of them (and here Romana would have shuddered) even _enjoy_ it. And, perhaps, did it.

She does not like to call herself a President or a hero, merely a lonely soul in search of something better. (What, she does not know.)

She wants to be the traveller who can lock their pain away in a casket, and at last she thinks she understands the Cybermen in their quest for control and emotionlessness. Pain is like being clawed at with icy hands and burnt by that which adores you, and she’s rather never see it again.

She has enough demons to last lifetimes, but when she looks out into the universe with a porcelain smile, the stars see a cracked angel.


End file.
